O, Iniquitous Haze
by WeatherWatch
Summary: AU. They protect her in the new world order the only way they can. Experimental.
1. June, 1999

**Disclaimer: I gain nothing but satisfaction and maybe a few kind words from strangers (speaking of, I've decided that this will eventually be a collection of one shots, not necessarily in chronological order but from the same universe. I'd been considering it, and now I've been convinced by a reviewer).**

**Also, this is rather experimental, but I'm rather fond of the concept at its core. I hope you enjoy.**

**Summary: **AU. They protect her in the new world order the only way they can.****

* * *

><p>-:-<br>"**O, Iniquitous Haze"  
><strong>well, darkness has a hunger that's insatiable  
>and lightness has a call that's hard to hear<br>( _closer to fine_ ; _indigo girls _)  
>-:-<p>

* * *

><p>Helium is a gas.<p>

If a balloon is filled with helium, it floats. The gas defies the gravitational pull of the earth's atmosphere.

She feels weightless. Has she been filled with helium? She isn't sure, because there is a rough texture under the soles of her feet which must mean that they are still touching the ground, but there is a weightlessness about her all the same.

Perhaps it's a consequence of solitude? Sometimes there are others, she thinks, but the shapes are blurred, indistinct and she is easily preoccupied by her own thoughts: the mind is inspiring – complicated like a labyrinth and capable of so much – and she is quite happy exploring the depths of her own.

* * *

><p>There are voices.<p>

She can hear them speaking; asking and responding, whispering and praying, and sometimes she hears a name that might be hers: _Hermione_.

Infrequently, she hears singing. The words are Latin, and the tune is only foreign the first time she listens to its melody, and every time she hears it she wishes she could join in with the clear, comforting tenor and the piano.

* * *

><p>The haze isn't quite right.<p>

She isn't entirely sure if it's _wrong_, but something in the tranquillity feels off, like eating cereal for dinner.

* * *

><p>"She's breaking through again," Theodore Nott cries frantically, trying to get a grip on the curly-haired witch's flailing arms and toppling them both in the ensuing scuffle. His companion expertly flicks his wand at the door, locking it magically, before turning the wand on the distressed witch. "Petrificus Totalus!"<p>

Instantly, she freezes in Theodore's grasp.

"That's twice this month," he sighs, cradling her stiff form. "Her immunity to the curse is growing, Zabini. We can't rely uniquely on Imperius anymore."

"Then how do we keep her safe?" Blaise enquires, stowing his wand back into its wrist holster.

Theodore's lips are the thinnest of lines. "I don't know." Gently, he wipes away a single salty rivulet that has made its way down her cheek. "I'm sorry," he whispers sincerely in her ear. "I'm sorry, Hermione, but it's the only way to keep you safe."

He doesn't know if she can hear him, or if she'd even understand, but it makes him feel better to say it aloud. Carefully, he lies her down and rises to reapply the Unforgiveable curse. The pearly jet of light makes her eyes glaze over, and Blaise nods delicately and exits in silence as Theodore repeals the Full-Body Bind.

Hermione stands under his direction and he cups her cheek carefully, his thumb delivering a loving caress, and as her body moves to the window seat Theodore sits at the piano and begins to sing. When he reaches the fourth line, a soft hum joins in and he smiles at the little witch with her hands folded in her lap.

He hopes his efforts will be rewarded. He hopes that she will be saved before he is overcome by the insatiable hunger of the Dark.

* * *

><p><strong>End.<strong>

**Read and review responsibly, please and thank you!**


	2. September, 1998

**A/N: Another one! I hope people enjoy this, despite the pinball-esque nature of the story and presentation of the timeline.**

* * *

><p>-:-<p>

_September, 1998_

-:-

* * *

><p>Blood is a liquid.<p>

Viscous and red, it is common to all humans.

When Theodore was a child, his father told him stories of great witches who bathed in the weak, muddy blood of muggles; but as a nineteen year old, standing tall in the ranks of his father's Lord and Master, Theodore is no longer convinced of their filthy inferiority.

The blood that pools around the dead and dying is matched in colour perfectly to his, and that is all the assurance he needs to finally embark on his covert mutiny.

In Blaise he has an ally, a neutral aide whose healing skills and flexibility will be fundamental if the plan is to succeed, but when the next assembly of muggleborns and blood traitors is brought through the doors of Malfoy Manor he finds a reason to follow through.

* * *

><p>The groans of pain accompany the shuffle of feet weighed down by chains and Theodore has to concentrate harder than usual to school his face when he recognises two former classmates in the ranks of what are now no better than slaves. Unflinchingly, he gazes at them, wanting nothing more than to be away from this place of fear and loathing.<p>

Ernie Macmillan was a Hufflepuff, solidly built and pompous, but with a definite sense of right and wrong. He looks broken now, his curly blond hair matted with blood and dirt, matching the blood-encrusted cut on his lip, and his once bright blue eyes are dull, the left one sporting a vicious purple-green bruise. Theodore's gaze moves back three people to find the sad figure of Mandy Brocklehurst. She'd been a Ravenclaw – exceptional at Transfiguration and a dab hand at Potions, too. He can only look at her for a moment. She must have put up quite a fight; normally it's only the Aurors who suffer such malicious spellwork – that, or somebody had a particular bone to pick with her. It's hard to tell and useless knowledge anyway.

There is another girl, a little behind her, who Theodore can't place. She's familiar somehow, but she doesn't resemble anybody from Hogwarts.

Wavy brown hair hangs limply, knotting upon itself, so that it covers her face. She is far too skinny and her skin is a sickly grey which makes Theodore want to check her eyes and vitals for any sign of life, she looks that much like one of the Undead.

The auction begins and Theo, who had intended to rescue one of his classmates, is startled when the grey girl tilts her head up minutely and accidentally gives him a view of her face.

_Hermione Granger_.

His heartbeat has increased to the point where he's sure that his neighbours can hear it, but he tries to maintain a regular breathing pattern. _If Granger is caught, where does that leave her two companions?_ he wonders desperately as other feelings try carefully to navigate their way to the surface. He pushes them back violently; it is neither the time nor the place. _Potter is the only one who can defeat the Dark Lord, and if he's dead, then there's no hope_. _No hope at all_.

Vaguely, Theodore is aware of Macmillan's purchase at the hands of a Death Eater's wife, Nereida Wittgenstein. Well, at least he will be kept well, even if it will be akin to living like a pet dog. Had Bellatrix been the new owner Theodore might well have sent a well-placed Killing curse as a mercy to the poor boy.

Mandy fares less positively. The only bright side of her purchase is that an endured torture is unlikely. She'll be dead in a few days. Guilt rises momentarily, but Mandy does not flinch and seems so resigned to her fate that the event passes her by entirely.

Finally, Granger's number is called. Slowly, Theodore raises his hand.

* * *

><p>They are in the centre of a snake pit, and all of the occupants are poisonous.<p>

He is trying to work out how to break the news of his underground mutiny to Granger while she sits, small and vulnerable, on the edge of the cell that serves as his bedroom in the greatly extended mansion used as Death Eater Headquarters. It's essentially a barracks; the Death Eaters are Voldemort's soldiers, after all.

"If you don't mind, could we just get this over with," she croaks dispassionately.

He looks up sharply. "I'm not going to rape you."

"You have a lot of faith in the Stockholm Syndrome theory, then," Hermione says.

"You're misguided in your evaluation of my purchase, Granger," he notes a little tiredly. "I didn't buy you for torturing, and I certainly didn't buy you for pleasure."

"Then what?" she asks. "What other possible purpose is there?"

"Your safety."

She glares. "You will keep me here – _here_, of all places – for my safety? I _was_ misguided in my evaluation. You bought me for a game."

Theodore's eyes narrow and he hisses: "I _bought_ you to _protect_ you, because you are somebody I can trust in the mutiny I am _insanely_ trying to concoct from within the Dark Lord's own territory. I need you remain alive and the only way I can guarantee that is if I am the one in charge of you."

"And if I would rather be dead?" she wonders more to herself than to him, resting her chin on her knees as she draws them up onto the bed. She is desolate, and it brings out very little faith in Theodore that Potter continues to live. He broaches the topic unsubtly.

"Where are they?" he demands. "Where are Potter and Weasley?"

"I won't tell you," she spits aggressively. "I will take it to my grave. With me or without me they will fight until the very end."

Theodore relaxes slightly. They're still alive, at least. Why, then, does she have a deathwish?

His thinking must show on his face because she explains in martyred tones: "Here I'm a danger to them. Right now I'm only a number, but I can't hide forever. My name will get out, and I will be tortured for information. I'm not a strong enough Occlumens able to keep your _Lord_ out of my mind indefinitely. If I'm dead, however, then they are safe."

"He is _not_ my Lord," Theodore denies, speaking over her words. He frowns. "You know, you have very little of the fire left that made you so fearsome in school."

"I've learned that some things are more important than others; some things aren't worth fighting for, some are."

There is a brief silence.

"Why would you tell me all this?" Theodore asks speculatively.

"Because," she begins, turning only her eyes towards him. "Because I remember a day in the back of the library when I thought you had the potential to change."

* * *

><p><strong>Read and Review responsibly, please and thank you!<strong>


	3. November, 1995

**A/N: A third part to the story appears. Enjoy!**

* * *

><p>-:-<br>_November, 1995_  
>-:-<p>

* * *

><p>Petrichor – the smell of rain.<p>

It is one of the happiest scents Hermione can summon out of her memory.

She sits happily in the window seat of Gryffindor tower as she reads her textbook, preparing for her next Arithmancy class with the window pushed open just enough to let the smell permeate the air around her. It is gorgeous.

Unfortunately, tranquillity does not last in a Common Room which houses four Weasleys and various Weasley products. Between red haired tricksters and red headed tempers she makes the decision to vacate to the library.

* * *

><p>Blaise Zabini does not discriminate in the way of most pureblood wizards. He cares only for intelligence. In some ways, he is much like Horace Slughorn; in others, not so much. He is admittedly the most attractive student currently attending Hogwarts and Hermione is tentative at approaching his table when she arrives in her favourite section of the castle.<p>

Even though all the other study tables are full, he sits alone, his aura repelling most and a jauntily raised eyebrow sending any of the more audacious students scurrying on their way. It's rather entertaining, really, but now, as she is the forlorn student, Hermione thinks that perhaps it isn't quite as amusing as Harry and Ron find it on their rare trips to the library.

"Do you mind?" she asks, and the Italian boy deigns to glance up at her.

"As long as you're quiet, not at all," he says graciously, then delivers her a lazy feline smile through lidded eyes. "Though I doubt that will be a problem for you."

Hermione smiles cautiously and deposits her pile of books opposite him, settling into a surprisingly companionable silence which is accompanied only by the gentle scratch of quills on parchment.

* * *

><p>"An unexpected companion, Blaise."<p>

The smooth tenor-voiced statement interrupts the quiet of the library and Hermione looks up to see Theodore Nott, one of the less visible Slytherins of her grade, standing to Zabini's left.

His grey-green eyes are fixed on her, and while they have none of Malfoy's obvious distaste, she can sense the less than impressed aura coming from him; it is almost tangible. She recalls that his father is a convicted Death Eater and quickly decides not to lower her eyes. Defiantly, she stares back at him and his mouth quirks just slightly, as if her refusal to look away is amusing somehow. Then, he pulls out one of the chairs and joins them, gently placing his books down so they draw a line between his workspace and theirs.

They resume their silence, the new arrival throwing a certain tension over the trio that, before, had been conspicuously absent. However, now that they outnumber her two to one, it's not quite as easy this time for Hermione to forget the colours of her companions' ties.

Eventually, though, as she slowly becomes engrossed in her text, she relaxes again, swept up in the information of her book. She curls a strand of hair around her hand, her quill absentmindedly tickling her cheek, and remains completely oblivious to Theodore Nott's unwavering gaze, his eyes set upon her as if, should he chance to blink, she might vanish completely.

* * *

><p>Somehow, their silent companionship becomes a weekly occurrence. They aren't friends, but a quaint and curious study group who rarely, if ever, speak to each other. The books are shared, the knowledge not so much, and it is up to each student themselves to find the reference in the text, obscure though it may be, if they decide to trawl through the communal tomes on the circular table at the back of the library.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Read and review responsibly, please and thank you!<strong>


	4. October, 1999

**A/N: The two chapters after this had already been written, but this one got rearranged and put before them which is kind of amusing because there shouldn't really be any 'order' to a non-linear story. But hey, I felt it worked better. **

**Also, thank you so much to all who have reviewed so far. It's a massive boost and has encouraged me to pump out lots of chapters. Well, enjoy!**

* * *

><p>-:-<br>_October, 1999  
><em>-:-

* * *

><p>The Cruciatus Curse is addictive. Theo knows this not from experience, but from what he has seen it do to the people around him. Bellatrix Lestrange uses it so regularly that it's almost second nature to her and, consequently, her wand has twisted unnaturally with the disturbing character of the spells she forces through it.<p>

The first and only time he uses it, it's an automatic reaction – one that surprises him as much as it does his victim, deserving though the man is of the pain. He decides then to never use it unless absolutely necessary – to draw on it as Bella does will be to court insanity, to encourage the hunger of the dark.

The decision doesn't appease Pettigrew, still writhing in pain as the remnants of the curse fade, but the rat is untrustworthy, a traitor to both sides, scum of the Wizarding world and not worth Theo's thoughts so he ignores him and walks away, calm and composed. When he reaches his room Hermione is humming quietly in the corner and he can't – won't – stop the tears that fall silently down his cheeks.

When Hermione, bewitched as she is, comes and sits beside him on the bed, gently placing her palm on his forearm, he loses it completely. The coolness of her hand rests directly over his dark mark and it doubles his determination, makes him even more fervent to organise the munity successfully.

They will defeat the Dark Lord, this year or in fifty.

Whatever it takes.

* * *

><p>"Pucey is on our side," Blaise tells him one evening. They are in Wales. It's grey and wet and Theo, who hates being away from Hermione at the best of times, just wants to go home to the cell that he shares with the Imperiused muggleborn. "And I made contact with somebody who might be able to help us."<p>

This is real news, something that can aid them in becoming a real threat to Voldemort when they come clean with their rebellion.

"Go on," Theo encourages tersely.

"George Weasley is willing to provide us with a variety of ammunitions," Blaise says slowly, "but he refuses to do so unless he can meet with – his words – 'the illustrious leader of the revolution'. On his terms."

"He's a bright fellow."

"He's given me a portkey that will activate on the twenty-sixth of October at exactly eleven-twenty."

"Then that gives me a week to prepare a winning argument," Theo says conclusively and Blaise raises a questioning eyebrow.

"So you're going? You'll risk the wrath of the Dark Lord finding out?"

"I haven't got any other options, do I?" Theo points out waspishly. "We need him, Zabini. If we're to put up a real fight, we'll need all the help we can get."

* * *

><p><strong>Please, read and review! It's much appreciated. <strong>


	5. February, 1996

**A/N: One more to add tonight, and then you'll have to wait a bit.**

* * *

><p>-:-<br>_February, 1996  
><em>-:-

* * *

><p>Fire is strangely mesmerising to Theodore. He likes the way is flickers and dances. He likes the way it engulfs.<p>

He stares at the fire the day his father brands him, trying to take no notice of the pain that rips through his arm as his future is burned into it. The imitation of the dark mark is his father's symbol of faith in the Dark Lord's regime; he will offer his only child to the cause without hesitation when the time comes. Until then, Theo will bear the charred, scarred skin as a sign of his involuntary alliance.

* * *

><p>It's a grey day in February when the study arrangement hits its first dead end. Blaise is not present, Theo is in a mood and Hermione has just come from a spat with Ron; the foundation for a conflict is already deeply inset and the absence of the peacemaker makes it just about inevitable.<p>

Surprisingly, Theo snaps first. The scar on his arm is burning with a minor infection that he is caring for with a poultice bought in Knockturn Alley and when Hermione snatches at one aggressively and accidentally knocks over her tower of books, causing one of them to topple onto his arm, he reacts badly.

"You filthy excuse for a witch," he bites out the words, hissing in pain and clutching at his shirt sleeve. Hermione's eyes widen, she knows the significance of the forearm.

"But – you can't be – you're only sixteen!" she exclaims. He ignores her, the pain in his arm too much for the moment. Slowly, uncaring as to whether she sees it or not, he rolls up the sleeve to reveal the wound. It's bleeding through cracked skin but the marred area is still clearly a dark mark, or as close as his father could manage. Hermione gasps.

"I don't understand," she whispers, sounding hurt.

"It's not voluntary," he grinds out, angry and in pain. "I'm not a masochist."

"Still, you'd follow someone who encourages this sort of thing?"

Theo hesitates. He doesn't want to join the ranks, but that doesn't mean he is one of Dumbledore's muggle loving toadies. He's a Separationist, fully for the complete division of muggle and magical worlds. He believes that he is by his pureblood birthright fundamentally better than muggles and muggleborns. He'd fit right in with the Death Eaters, he's grown up as the son of one, but there are better ways to go about it than through Voldemort's movement.

"He doesn't care for his followers," Hermione interrupts his thoughts quietly. "He'll kill you as easily as anyone else."

"You think I don't know that? You think I'm oblivious to what he is? Well guess what, Granger – not everyone has a life that's rainbows and honeycomb. This is more than my political stance. It's life or death; and if by choosing life it means I'm sided with the Dark Lord then so be it."

"It will taint you," Hermione argues. "The mark eats into your very soul. If you take it you'll never be free of him, Nott. You'll be nothing more than a slave, a disposable mercenary. You're more than that."

"How would you know?" Theo growls violently, standing up so quickly his chair crashes to the floor. "You know nothing about me."

The commotion attracts the attention of other students and Madam Pince and Hermione, trembling slightly at Theodore's vehemence, sits meekly while he storms off. The librarian doesn't even remonstrate with him, but rights the chair and gives Hermione a stern but enquiring look.

"Is everything alright, Miss Granger?" Pince asks and Hermione manages a nod. "Well, I'll be sending Mr Nott a warning via owl, but since you're still here I'll just say that I expect this to be a one-time occurrence. The library is not the place for emotional, romantic tiffs."

She is barking very much up the wrong tree, but Hermione lets is pass and excuses herself from the library to find somewhere quiet and empty where she can think about the afternoon's events.

* * *

><p><strong>Read and review responsibly, please and thank you!<strong>


	6. December, 1998

**A/N: Hermione's attempt may not be very well written since I'm in no way familiar with things like this, and I didn't fancy googling to find out about it, but she's desperate and using the tools that are available.**

* * *

><p>-:-<br>_December, 1998_  
>-:-<p>

* * *

><p>Leather is made from cow-hide. It's strong, durable, but flexible too.<p>

Somewhere in the cell of a room, Hermione has discovered a belt.

One of Theo's, it's handcrafted and astonishingly pretty for what is; she caresses it tenderly, thinking of how it will feel around her throat, wondering whether it will hurt or if she will be able to make the attempt swift. She doubts it, but she'll have to try her best. Here she is a sitting duck, an easy target for any Death Eater that passes – she has no wand. No protection, no defence. Theodore keeps telling her that she'll be safe with him but it's not exactly a promise easily kept – twice this month she has had run-ins with senior Death Eaters and the only thing that has saved her is their obliviousness to her true identity -not all members of the inner circle know the face of the 'mudbood' and for once she's thankful for the emaciated figure that disguises her even further.

The incident that has driven her to the decision she has come to is the attempted Legilimency that Ernst Wittgenstein performed as he passed by the room to fetch Theodore to a revel. She felt it prickle her shields and was sure he caught an image of Paris in the summer, an image of a family holiday which she managed to pull from the depths of her mind to replace the thoughts of Harry and Ron. He is close to breaking her ever-weakening barriers and she knows that a stronger wizard will crush them.

She can't allow them that opportunity.

* * *

><p>There is a steel hook protruding from the ceiling, presumably where a chandelier once hung proudly, and Hermione manoeuvres the lone chair in Theodore's room under it so she can loop the belt around, the unattached end providing her with a noose. The process hasn't under gone a lot of thought, suicide not being an area of interest before her capture, so she has no idea if her plan will work, but slow or quick it will eventually restrict her breathing to the point of no return. Of that, she is certain.<p>

Carefully, she works it around her neck, fixing it in place and drawing a fortifying breath. It's a practical sacrifice she comforts herself, but somehow the thought isn't entirely reassuring. Still, she will go through with her plan.

* * *

><p>"Shit," Theo cries frantically, scrabbling to release the still form from the noose in the middle of his room. He lays Hermione's motionless body gently on the bed, checking her vitals. They're there, but weak. "Shit, Granger. I don't know enough about healing for you to do this to me!"<p>

On her throat he uses a charm normally used to clear the airways when something has been swallowed the wrong way and it eases her shallow breathing a little but he's not sure enough of his spell-casting so he abandons her momentarily to find Blaise, the Italian thankfully penning letters alone in his room.

More adept when it comes to medical magic, Blaise makes short work of the healing process, fixing her damaged throat and ensuring she takes in oxygen. He sends her to sleep, rightly assuming that she'll be safer if she remains unconscious. Theo sits with his head in his heads at the side of the bed.

"Why would she do something like this?" Blaise asks quietly.

Theo doesn't look up. "To keep her secrets. To keep Potter and Weasley safe."

He pulls at his hair in frustration. "She warned me – the first day I had her here, she warned me that their safety was more important than hers. She said that her being alive in this place, susceptible to practitioners of Legilimency, was too dangerous and that maybe death would be a better option. I didn't think she'd actually go through with the idea."

"If she'll do it once then she'll do it again," the Italian adds softly. "You've got no option but to bewitch her now. You can't watch her all the time, and now she's in danger from both Death Eaters and herself. The Imperius is your safest bet."

"I don't want to have to do that, though," Theo argues weakly. "Surely-"

"You've no other choice," Blaise hisses, interrupting him. "We've talked about this, Nott. You knew that her safety would have to come first if you wanted this ridiculous plan to work, and if that safety involves casting an Unforgiveable on her then you will do it, and you will do it without complaining."

Theo grimaces, tugging his fringe back from his face agitatedly.

"If you value her life then you won't let her take it so senselessly."

Blaise is unyielding and in the end a pearly line of light extends from Theodore's wand to collide with Hermione's chest. Her eyes are strangely empty when they open and the sight hurts far more than he expected.

* * *

><p><strong>Read and review responsibly, please and thank you!<strong>


	7. October 1999, ii

**A/N: Out of curiosity, could Weasley's Wizard Wheezes be contracted to Sextuple U, or Triple Double-yu, or would you just called them WWW, or Wheezes, or Weasleys or something? Thoughts, anybody? Personally, I wanted to go with Sextuple U, but I thought it might not translate very well so I did the WWW instead.**

**Enjoy chapter eight!**

* * *

><p>-:-<em><br>October, 1999  
><em>-:-

* * *

><p>Portkeys are fascinating. While not particularly complex, the nature of their magic tends to warn people away from their creation and so Theo is a little surprised by the skill that has gone into the spell-casting on the little silver spoon. However, he recalls the Weasley twins' utter fearlessness and the surprise melts away.<p>

It is almost eleven-twenty, and Theo grasps the spoon tightly. There is the familiar tug behind his navel and then he is deposited into what looks like a basement, a cellar of some kind. George Weasley rises out of the darkness, well dressed and somehow more fearsome for it.

"Morning," the ginger man greets, "O, Illustrious Leader."

Theodore nods acknowledgement, waiting for a cue before he speaks. This is still dangerous territory, even if he is supporting their fight.

"Theodore Nott – I find it curious that a Death Eater, and a legacy one at that, would be wishing to start a rebellion," George drawls, buffing his nails on his dark green velvet suit. "Tell me, what is it that's changed your mind about old Voldy? Not enough pay, not enough fun? Or is it something else?"

"Don't presume to think that all Death Eaters volunteer for the position, Weasley," Theo says severely. "If you must know, this is a decision that's been festering in me since Hogwarts. A certain somebody tried to redirect my path; she was unsuccessful only in part. She planted in me the seed for this fight, now I'm just carrying it through."

George watches him intently; he must know of whom Theodore speaks, but he says nothing.

"She is safe, at the moment. For how long we can ensure that safety is unknowable," Theo adds. "She's in the snake pit, as it were, though the snakes are unaware as of yet."

The effects of these words are unmistakeable.

"Hermione's alive?" George demands hoarsely.

"Yes."

"Thank the stars and all that is good in this world," the other man breathes. He shudders, trying not to show weakness, but his eyes glisten with unshed tears at the revelation. Theo understands. He has seen the papers that speculate over the witch's fate; a broken wand, a chunk of hair, it all bodes badly in this time of war.

George pulls a bottle of Firewhiskey off a nearby shelf and conjures two tumblers. He offers one glass to Theo, who accepts but doesn't drink until George has swallowed all of his in a single go. When Theo does drink, he feels the tingle of Veritaserum.

"How did you manage to coat only the one glass?" he asks resignedly.

"I didn't," George replies. "I can't join a rebellion if I don't trust the leader, but you can afford even less to have untrustworthy co-conspirators. Call it an action of goodwill," he says, "as opposed to gaining an underhanded advantage."

"Fair call," Theo says with a sly smile. George clinks his refilled tumbler to Theo's and the interrogation begins.

* * *

><p>It takes two and a half hours for them to come to an agreement, another forty-five minutes to discuss all that needs to be discussed.<p>

In the end, George Weasley has consented to provide ammunition in the form of rare and un-purchasable WWW products – including pepper bombs and numbing granules – aswell as Peruvian darkness powder, an impressive number of Skiving Snackboxes, and few of the more 'simply irritating goods' (as the redhead put it) like trick wands; and since George, as primary weapons master, has also become a kind of minor commander, it will be through him that the remaining members of the Order of the Phoenix will be informed of events.

The game is well and truly afoot now.

"Keep in touch, Illustrious Leader," the red head says as he hands over the broken bicycle horn that will transport Theo to the open fields just outside Hogsmeade.

The pull comes unexpectedly and Theo barely manages to hold onto the horn until he reaches his destination.

* * *

><p><strong>Read and review responsibly, please and thank you.<strong>


End file.
